Where do these people get off,
these midnight promenaders,
strolling and making sense of
a flickering blackness.
Strolls are for morning-time,
ask any mental patient.
Even they know the rules,
and they’re nothing like you or me,
in fact they’re so far away from reality
they might as well pretend to strangle themselves
with their imaginary kite-strings.
No, there’s no such thing
as a late-night smile.
Maybe a grin, or a grimace,
or a wide-faced hoot.
A big goofy gap-toothed monologue,
but never a smile. It has been shown
to be self-evident that
the subtle contracting
of all those muscles
in the dead of night is tantamount
to slapping the devil in the face,
which, everyone knows, is the secret
to eternal happiness,
but the height of rudeness.
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